


it's a small crime (and I've got no excuse)

by girlsarewolves



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Porn, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mildly Dubious Consent, Season 2 AU, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 01:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13823481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: In the dark, eyes closed, she can pretend she's only imagining that it's Oliver with her, that she doesn't know who the Hood really is. In the dark, with her eyes closed, she can almost imagine it's Tommy.





	it's a small crime (and I've got no excuse)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheYearOfTheWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYearOfTheWolf/gifts).



> I'm doing a thorough rewatch/viewing of Arrow and got hit with a lot of ugly ship feels including Lauriver, Tommy/Laurel, and Oliver/Laurel/Tommy. I'm on season two right now, though honestly this was a scenario that came to me during season one but of course I had to go the angsty route, so here we are. Feedback is definitely appreciated!
> 
> Note: The consent/identity issue is that two people are having sex, know who they are, but there's an uncertainty that both parties are fully aware. If that makes sense.

* * *

(This feels like a crime. Certainly a sin.)  
  
The lights are still out. She can only just make out the outline of her furnishings thanks to the city lights shining through her apartment windows. The dark keeps his face hidden well when he's this close - as if she doesn't know the taste of his mouth, the feel of him inside her. But it's easier to pretend when they're in the shadows.  
  
Needy, greedy fingers have left her clothes askew, off enough that he can touch where he wants to. He always was a greedy lover - taking and touching everything he could, but damn, he made it feel like he was giving. Still does. His mouth on her pulse, thumbs brushing over her nipples, keeping them stiff and sensitive as he fucks her there against the wall.  
  
Laurel thinks of Tommy - probably not the right time to think of her dead lover, of his lifeless body and her heart sinking down the bottomless pit of her gut. But memory drifts from pain to pleasure - remembering the way he could stoke her arousal like a gentle fire that could last for hours, simmering just underneath her skin, until finally she was begging, needing those flames to become a wildfire. She can still recall moments where his head was between her legs, and all she knew was his tongue and fingers. Those were the best nights - she's convinced herself it was always like that, but deep down, she knows that's a lie.  
  
If she focuses on the course of their relationship, if she's honest, he wasn't always the most generous lover. If she's honest, they weren't even together when he died - yet always she calls him boyfriend, lover, partner, significant other. Sometimes grief tries to paint him always good, always better than he was until near the end. Sometimes she colors their relationship rose gold - but the truth is they barely had a relationship, isn't it? A couple of years of one night stands to a couple of months of serious dating, but now she feels like she lost a part of herself.  
  
Then again she was the one to toss it aside, wasn't she? Rushing into what he was so afraid of, but he still came rushing to her rescue.  
  
(This is certainly a crime. What else explains shedding tears during sex even when it makes you feel more alive than you have in weeks, months?)  
  
His fingers drag down from her breasts to grip her hips, holding her steady as he presses her tighter to the wall, teeth clamping down on the hollow of her neck for a moment - just long enough for a dull pain to bloom. He suckles then, soothing it away, making the pleasure sweeter, groaning when she clenches around him in response. He keeps his face there, hidden from her sight - like she doesn't remember the way he fucks, the way he could always drive her wild.  
  
Laurel thinks of Oliver - not the vigilante in the hood who's taking her there in the dark in her apartment, like some stranger, like this is some one night stand, nothing but anonymous sex. She thinks of the Ollie before the island, the boyish grin on that wicked mouth, the way his fingers combed through her hair when she was on her knees for him, how he liked to bite and pry his fingers everywhere she'd let him, like he had to feel every part of her, had to know where felt good, where felt amazing, where he was never allowed to touch again. She remembers how he was gasoline on her fire, making her burn hot and bright and wild from the start, leaving her exhausted but ready for more a short time later.  
  
It was a thrill, a rush with him. They were a rush - rushing in, rushing out, rushing away.  
  
(This is a sin. A wicked, awful sin. What kind of person feels guilty for something that feels this good?)  
  
His mouth moves up, suckles on her earlobe until she moans - and then bites down hard, an almost too sharp pain that makes her gasp, makes her fingers curl against the leather covering his back. His grunts hit her damp skin in warm puffs of air as he slows down the pace. He's close - she knows this move, she knows he's too close too soon for his liking.  
  
"Pull out," she whispers, the first words said since this started - since he got there to see if she was okay, offering an apology for not being there when the city, when she, needed him, and she'd recklessly grabbed him after telling him to go to hell, because she just wanted to fucking _feel_ something other than pain and grief. Her hands move to his chest, palms flat, pushing away, and he lets out a strangled groan that sounds too pitiful for the vigilante -  there's a hint of resignation, of a frustration that sounds all too Ollie for her liking - and obeys her.  
  
He helps her lower down, starts to move away, but she reaches blindly for his face, holding on and kissing him - "Stay," she whispers - before she turns around, facing the wall. Another groan rumbles in his chest and then he's moving back in, body trapping her between him and the wall once more. He grips her as she reaches down, guides his cock back to her slit, guides him inside of her again.  
  
They moan in unison as he sinks back into her, sliding deep so easily.  
  
"Laurel," he whispers, trying to make his voice sound deeper, gruffer - whatever he uses to lower his voice around her off or discarded where it's no use - trying and failing to sound like someone other than Oliver Queen.  
  
"Don't talk," she whispers back, forehead pressed to the wall, fingers curling, scraping at the paint. She doesn't say why. She doesn't have to explain that this is so much easier if they don't speak, so much easier to pretend.  
  
(This isn't a crime.)  
  
Fingers grip her hips tighter and his forehead rests against the back of her skull. He moans - a noise that's somewhere between one of pleasure and one of hurt - but just moves with her, not saying another word. His hands slide over her sides, her abdomen, one traveling north and the other moving south, until he has fingers at a nipple and her clit, teasing both until she's almost crying, hips jerking.  
  
So close - it's so close - and he keeps stroking, keeps thrusting, panting hard against the back of her neck, she knows he's on the edge like her. She claws at the wall, grinds her hips back, twists and writhes into his thrusts, she's so fucking close it's driving her crazy - but it doesn't come, even when his fingers falter against her and his hips shudder, and he's pulling away, pulling out like there's some pretense at safe sex going on here. Need coils in the pit of her belly - the hand at her breast falls away while the hand between her legs keeps stroking, trying to drag her over the edge.  
  
"Fuck, I...I can't," she gasps out minutes later, when he's stroked her into a frenzy, her orgasm right there, eluding her. Her hands curl into fists and beat against the wall as a sob breaks free. She wanted this - wants this - but she's thinking of Tommy, thinking of him lying in her bed, lying dead in front of her, and she _can't_.  
  
Arms wrap around her, holding her, and he's whispering against her ear it's okay, but it's not. He's living proof that it doesn't get better, isn't he? Time goes on but the pain keeps you trapped in all the awful moments you'd kill to escape from.  
  
(This is most certainly a crime. Two wrongs don't make a right. Does three? Does four? Maybe you're trying to figure out how many wrongs it takes to make it right - maybe that's what he's been doing since he got back.)  
  
Before she even registers he's moving away from her, he has her turned around, back to the wall like at the start - and then he's down on his knees, and, fuck, she can't see him in this dark, in that costume, but she remembers exactly how Oliver Queen looks on his knees. She moans, eyes closed, because it's a heady sight - seeing the boy she'd thought about when she hit puberty down there, head at her cunt, seeing the playboy every other girl wanted right where she wanted him. She doesn't stop moaning, the sound becoming higher pitched, almost a whine as he presses his tongue to her slit and licks, teasing at her clitoris and igniting more sparks under her skin, through her veins.  
  
In the dark, eyes closed, she can pretend she's only imagining that it's Oliver down there, tongue teasing before he gives a hard suck while fingers press at her, slide in, the pressure delightful and torturous. In the dark, with her eyes closed, she can almost imagine it's Tommy down there, alive and back in her life, driving her wild, telling her with his mouth and no words that she can finally come.  
  
She screams when she does, a leg hooked over his shoulder, her hands clutching at the hood, hips bucking as her other leg gives out. She screams as she comes so hard she can't think, can't see, can barely even hear her own cry, barely aware of the arms supporting her while all she can do is hold on and ride it out. It leaves her exhausted, wasted, throat hoarse and limbs quivering and weak.  
  
It's only once she's regained her senses that she realizes she was screaming Tommy's name.  
  
(This was a crime. You're a sinner, just like him. A common criminal, but you've known that for months. How many wrongs does it take to make a right?)  
  
"I'm sorry," she cries, shame settling in to take pleasure's place. "I'm so sorry," she says, and she isn't sure who she's talking to - does it even matter? Maybe she's apologizing to them both, for whatever good it will do.  
  
"It's okay," he tells her, standing, picking her up, carrying her to the bedroom. It's a useless sentiment - they both know damn well it's not okay, they can't remember when it was last, if it ever will be again - but she appreciates it all the same. He lays her down on the bed and kisses her, his mouth slick with the taste of her, causing shame and lingering lust to swirl inside her belly. "I loved him too."  
  
He's there, hovering above her, the confession filling the space between them - and then he's gone, her lights flickering back on seconds later, illuminating his absence so she can't ignore it.  
  
(They're a crime.)

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hate torturing Laurel cause goodness knows she suffered enough on that show, but I'm also a sucker for ugly, messy, angsty smut and haven't written that in a suuuuuper long time, and it was just so easy with these two? Thanks to my husband for being patient with this and giving me lots of feedback throughout.


End file.
